


A Chance Encounter

by LeftHandOfFenHarel



Category: Dragon Age: Inquisition, Dragon Age: Origins - Awakening
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-12-04
Updated: 2015-12-04
Packaged: 2018-05-04 22:34:11
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,385
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5350880
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LeftHandOfFenHarel/pseuds/LeftHandOfFenHarel





	A Chance Encounter

First Enchanter Irving of the Kinloch Hold Circle of Magi prided himself on remaining calm and collected under pressure. His unflappable demeanor made him popular among mages and templars alike. The First Enchanter had endured trials that would have broken lesser men without batting an eye or betraying a hint of weakness. Now, though, Irving's eyes burned with ill-concealed anger and veins were beginning to stand out on his forehead. Tension hung heavy in the air as Irving looked up from the letter clutched in his white-knuckled hands to the smirking face of the templar across from him.

"You can't do this." he said flatly.

"I did nothing." Rylock grinned. "Chantry's orders."

"I know you're behind this, Rylock." Irving snapped. "You've just can't leave him alone, can you?"

"Your pet mage will just have to learn to live without his little lover, First Enchanter." Rylock taunted. "I don't recall the Chantry signing off on illicit affairs among the mages, anyway."

Irving shot to his feet. "Watch your tongue, woman." he spat. "You've done enough damage here; I won't have you poisoning Kinloch Hold with your baseless gossip."

"Irving, careful." Gregoir cautioned. "Rylock, that's enough. You're dismissed. Get back to the barracks."

Rylock only smiled and strolled haughtily out of the room. Irving turned to Greagoir, dismay etched into his face.

"He's going to run again, Greagoir." he said miserably.

Knight Captain Greagoir's shoulders sagged. He was a templar, yes, and his duty was to keep the mages of Kinloch Hold under tight control, but it was awful seeing his oldest friend so unhappy. "He might not." Greagoir offered weakly. Irving shut him down with a glance. Of course Anders was going to run. "It was never the walls that kept Anders here," Irving replied slowly. "I am beginning to doubt that walls exist that can keep Anders locked in. He isn't here because we've contained him. He's here because Karl Thekla is here. I know I should have tried to keep them apart, Greagoir, I know, but... Anders is a force of nature." A sad half-smile played on Irving's face. "And he stayed. He has never once tried to run away since he met Karl. Karl kept him here, kept him safe. I wonder, sometimes, if he's the only one who can." Irving sank back into his office chair. "You had better go, Greagoir. I'm sure word of this is spreading as we speak." he shot a sidelong glance at the templar, who bristled at the implied accusation against his subordinate but remained silent. After all, Irving was probably right. "Perhaps I should stay here?" Greagoir offered, but Irving dismissed him with a wave. "Anders is no threat to me, no matter how upset he is."

Greagoir hesitated for a moment, heaved a heavy sigh, and left.

Far sooner than he had anticipated, the door to First Enchanter Irving's office crashed open and Anders charged in. The young mage's face was a mask of anger and pain. His hands were balled into fists at his sides, and his face was still stained with tears in spite of obvious efforts to hide them. "You can't do this!" Anders shouted, slamming his fist onto the First Enchanter's desk. "Anders," Irving began, but Anders shouted over him. "It isn't right!" he yelled. "It isn't fair! You can't!"

Irving maneuvered as quickly as he could past the enraged young man and closed the door. Anders fell silent and sank into a chair, cradling his head in his hands. When he looked up, his eyes were again glassy with tears, though he stubbornly kept them from falling. "You can't do this." he repeated quietly. "He's my best friend. He's my only friend. He's the only reason I can stand being locked away in this glorified prison. You can't send him away."

Irving took a seat next to Anders, rather than behind the imposing wooden desk, and placed a hand on Anders' back. The young man flinched and slapped his hand away, betrayal flashing in his eyes. Irving simply clasped his hands in his lap and leaned forward. "Anders," he began again gently, "you have to know that this was not my decision. The order came from a much higher authority than myself or anyone else in this Circle. These are desperate times, dear boy, and Kirkwall needs mages."

"Then send me with him!" Anders declared. "If Kirkwall needs mages, and they have to have Karl, then send us both!" Irving smiled sadly. "You know that isn't how this works." he said.

Anders sprang out of the chair and began to pace restlessly. "It was the templars, wasn't it?" He accused. Irving sighed and settled back in his chair. Anders was distraught, and perhaps the best course of action was just to let him shout and pace until he wore himself out. There was certainly nothing to be gained from attempting to reason with the young man until he calmed down.

Anders continued to rant, seemingly oblivious to the fact that the First Enchanter was in the room at all. "They're doing this to us..." he muttered angrily to himself. "It was because we were happy. Can't have that, can we? Andraste forbid a mage be happy, or find companionship, or... family..." His voice broke. He placed a hand over his eyes and turned away from Irving. He was silent, but his shoulders shook almost imperceptibly. Irving remained outwardly impassive, but the sight of those feathered shoulders... those silly feathers the boy insisted on carefully sewing onto his robes himself... the sight of those feathers trembling like leaves in a silent breeze caused Irving's chest to constrict with guilt. Maker, the poor boy. Irving blinked and swallowed, mentally wrenching his composure back into place. Across the room, still standing with his back to Irving, Anders raised his head. Without turning around, he spoke, and in his voice was a hatred unlike anything Irving had ever heard from the usually lighthearted mage. "It was Rylock, wasn't it?" he hissed.

Irving sighed and shifted in his chair. "Anders, I told you, the order came from the chantry. Ser Rylock had nothing to do with it." The lie tasted sour in his mouth, and in his mind's eye he could see the sadistic satisfaction and glee in the templar's face as she placed the sealed envelope on his desk. He blinked away the memory and pushed through. "Orders are orders, Anders. You've heard of the situation in Kirkwall. They're desperate."

"If they need mages so much, why can't I just go with him?" Anders argued stubbornly, almost petulantly.

Irving took a breath to steady his nerves. He knew he needed to word his next thoughts carefully. "You can't go to Kirkwall, Anders. You're too... hot-headed." he said gently. Anders tried to interrupt, but Irving silenced him with a raised hand. "No," he continued. "What do you think would happen to you there? Do you think the Kirkwall Circle will turn a blind eye to your relationship with Apprentice Thekla as we have here? Do you think their First Enchanter will tolerate you shouting and pounding your fists on his desk? You'd be in chains at best, but more likely dead. Or worse." he looked pointedly at the young man and paused for effect. Anders visibly wilted slightly at the indirect mention of the one fate worse than death - tranquility. "I can not let that happen. You're not just under my command, Anders, you are in my care. I am sorry that your friend is being transferred to Kirkwall, but you cannot go with him. This is for your own good."

As soon as the sentence left his mouth, Irving knew it was a mistake.

"For my own good?" Anders replied, eyes wide. "For my own good?" he roared, “I was torn from my mother's arms, put in chains like a criminal, and locked away in this, this dungeon, and all the while everyone said it was for my own good. Now you're ripping away the only thing in this miserable existence you've forced on me that makes life worth living, and you are trying to tell me again that this is for my own good?" The tears brimming in Anders' red-rimmed eyes finally spilled over. "You bastard," he spat. "You traitorous bastard." Irving flinched at the insult but remained silent. He could not bring himself to berate the anguished young man in spite of his insubordination. "I thought you were my friend. I trusted you, but you're as bad as the rest of them, aren't you?" Anders clenched his jaw and snarled. "You can take my freedom, you can take my family, you can take away everything in this life that makes me happy, but I will not stand here and listen to you, or the templars, or the chantry tell me that all this pointless suffering and pain is for my own good!" With that, the young mage turned and stormed out, slamming the door behind him. A murmuring rose up in the hallway outside, then faded. The commotion had attracted an audience, no doubt. 

Irving rose and walked to the window, stopping to pull the envelope containing Apprentice Thekla's transfer orders from his desk. He stared thoughtfully out the window, turning the envelope over and over in his hands. "Oh, Anders," he said softly, lowering his gaze to the envelope. "Please, dear boy, please don't do anything rash."

************

Anders shivered and pulled his cloak more tightly around him. The thin cloak offered very little protection against the biting wind, and Anders' hands and feet had long since gone numb from the cold. Foreboding grey clouds hung low and heavy overhead, threatening to release their store of rain at any moment. Anders brushed strands of golden hair out of his eyes and secured a final branch onto a makeshift lean-to that he had built, hidden carefully away in the trees. "Well," he said to himself as his teeth chattered. "Home sweet home!" He then turned his attention to the small fire pit he had bordered with stones from the nearby river. His brow furrowed in concentration, and he gesticulated dramatically at the pile of firewood at his feet.

Nothing happened.

Anders looked around, embarrassed, as though someone was going to see him after all the trouble he'd gone to concealing his camp. He looked back at the firewood and gestured again.

Nothing happened.

"Andraste's tits." He said irritably. He crawled into the lean-to and emerged with the staff he had stolen when he escaped. Standing again over the fire pit, Anders gestured toward it with the staff.

Again, nothing happened.

Frustrated, Anders lifted the staff high over his head and swung it dramatically. Finally he felt magic crackle in the air. Spinning the staff, he shouted a spell and slammed the point of the staff into the ground. Fire erupted from the staff in all directions, singeing Anders' eyebrows and sending him staggering backwards. Coughing, and with tears stinging his eyes, he pulled himself to his feet to witness his handiwork.

The entire forest within a half-mile radius was blackened and smoking. All the trees were left as twisted, charred trunks. The lean-to was engulfed in flames and burning away cheerily. Adding insult to injury, in the center of what was now a clearing, the fire pit and the mage's staff sat innocently, completely untouched. Anders began to growl epithets under his breath as he gathered his surviving belongings. He had never had much use for fire spells in the Circle, but he would have given anything in that moment to have one, just one, usable fire spell. "Nug-loving... bastard... shit." Anders muttered as he dragged his things over to the burning lean-to. "At least something is burning and warm."

As though the skies themselves had heard him, at that moment, it finally began to rain.

"This is fine." Anders said. "I'm fine. There's a fire. I have a fire. This is fine."

The rain grew in intensity, soaking through Anders' cloak and running down his body in rivulets. His teeth chattered.

"I'm fine." He repeated, as though trying to convince himself. "I am fine. Everything is fine. This is better than the Circle. It's only rain. It's just rain."

With a sizzle, the burning lean-to gave up the ghost and the fire went out, plunging the forest again into cold, wet, darkness. 

"Fuck." said Anders.

*********

Anemic morning light seeped into the edges of Anders' vision, calling him back to consciousness. He rolled over on the hard dirt and groaned. He was cold, he was wet, and his freezing joints radiated pain. Grunting, he slowly hauled himself to his feet and began to flex his aching limbs. He rubbed his hands together and breathed into them to warm them, and looked around, taking stock of his surroundings.

The accursed staff that had turned his campfire attempt into an inferno lay benignly next to the fire pit, where he had left the thing the night before. Anders sighed and picked it up, giving it a twirl in his hand before strapping it to his back. Better to have a staff he struggled to control than no staff at all. He grabbed the leather satchel that held his few possessions and peeked inside hopefully. Alas, no new rations had appeared in his supplies overnight. Anders' shoulders sagged. He had run out of food days ago.

Dejected, Anders began to walk. Not in any particular direction, not with any particular destination in mind. Of course, the whole driving idea behind his latest jailbreak was to make his way to Kirkwall... but Anders did not know how to get there. Even now he had very little idea where he was. He only knew where he wasn't. The thought cheered him. It was good to be outside. Anders smiled, eyes closed, and lifted his face to the sun, taking a moment to enjoy the sensation of the breeze across his skin and the grass beneath his feet. Maker, yes, it was good to be outside. It was good to be free. 

Several hours later, his mood drastically improved, Anders was crouched down by the river, attempting to fish with all the success of the previous evening's campfire. "Bastards," he whispered to the unseen fish. His stomach growled out a loud protest, and Anders' hand drifted to his increasingly uncomfortable stomach. "Better keep moving. I have to find something."

Anders stood and retrieved his now mostly dry cloak and robes from the tree branch where he'd left them and dressed carefully, watching and listening for any possible sign of danger from the woods. He heard only wind, water, and birdsong. He shook out his feathered coat and smiled to himself. It had been far too long since he had heard the music of the forest. It was almost overwhelming after years of being surrounded on all sides by the silent, oppressive stone of the Circle tower. He opened his eyes and drank in the blue expanse of the sky. His smile widened; he couldn't help it. Heading out again in no direction in particular, he breathed in the heady scent of the forest and allowed himself to daydream. Daydreams were always a favorite means of escape from the Circle when literal escape was not an option. He was so engrossed in his reverie and the euphoria of freedom and honestly, slightly delirious from hunger and exhaustion as well, that he never saw the campsite until he was tripped up by some unseen obstacle and sent sprawling. His right knee took the brunt of the impact and Anders cried out and rolled onto his back, clutching his knee to his chest. 

"Maker... damn it... son of a... nug-licking…” He took a few deep breaths and placed one hand on either side of his injured knee and willed a healing spell through his fingertips. The pain faded a little, but halfway through the incantation Anders’ strength faltered, and the spell with it. He let his arms fall to the ground at his sides and looked around.

The campsite was unremarkable, but compared to Anders’ choice of lodging for the past few nights, it was decadent. A sturdy tent all but blended into the trees and he was sure he could see blankets just beyond the entrance. Blankets… Anders blinked drowsily. Blankets sounded heavenly. So did sleep, but sleep was a luxury the young mage could not afford. He propped himself up on his elbows and summoned the last of his strength to finish healing himself, then cautiously stood and headed for the tent. Finding no one inside, Anders looked around, shrugged apologetically to no one in particular, and began to rummage through the knapsack he discovered near the tent. Inside, he found several healing potions, a bundle of dried elfroot, a few coins, and-

Oh.

Oh, sweet Maker.

In that moment, the stale loaf of bread was the most beautiful thing Anders had ever seen in his life. Without even a thought, Anders snatched the bread out of the knapsack and tore into it the way a bear tears into a salmon. He barely bothered to chew and swallowed the still-hard chunks of bread, wincing at the resulting pain. He knew he should slow down, but he couldn’t. He was desperately, painfully hungry, and his body wasn’t acknowledging commands from his brain anymore. Survival instinct had taken over, and all Anders could do was ride out the storm and do his best not to choke to death. He was so busy stuffing bread into his cheeks like a crazed chipmunk that he did not immediately notice that he was no longer alone. When he did, he froze.

A young Dalish elf stood mere feet away, motionless and staring. He was slender, as the Dalish often are, perhaps a bit taller than most elves. He had gathered his chestnut hair in a thick braid down his back, his robes were simple, and as elves always were, he was barefoot. His mouth hung slightly open in surprise and his expression was one of complete and utter confusion.

Anders glanced at the remaining half of the ravaged loaf still in his hand, then back at the elf. “Oh…” he said carefully around a mouthful of dry breadcrumbs. “Um. Was… was this yours? You see,” and then he made the fatal mistake of inhaling.

Anders’ eyes immediately began to water as the breadcrumbs lodged themselves in all the wrong places. He began to cough and wheeze uncontrollably. Unable to catch his breath, he staggered blindly around the campsite clutching at his throat and crashing into things like a drunken bear. He could hear the elf shouting something, but couldn’t make out the words. He careened into something hard and heard glass shatter before crashing to the ground himself. In an instant, Anders felt warmth radiating through his back and into his airways. He raised himself to a sitting position and wiped tears from his eyes. Blinking, he looked up at the elf, and then around at the campsite. He’d broken at least three healing potions and flattened the tent. Returning his gaze to the thoroughly unamused elf, Anders grinned, said “Um… I didn’t do it.” and then promptly passed out.

***********

Consciousness returned to Anders slowly. He squeezed his eyes shut, unwilling to return to the harsh reality of the waking world. 

“Are you awake then, stranger?”

His eyes flew open in surprise. The elf stood over him, eyeing him cautiously. Anders was no longer outside, but in the tent, and wrapped in blankets. But… something… his memory was foggy. Wait, hadn’t he destroyed the tent while he was choking? Anders licked his lips and swallowed. His mouth was horribly dry.

“How long was I out?” he rasped

“For the better part of a day.” the elf replied. “You must have been exhausted. You slept like a stone. I’ll be right back.” he turned and left the tent. Even in his weakened state, Anders couldn’t help but take note of the pleasing curve of his backside as he did. “Nice…” he whispered to himself, grinning lasciviously, “Very nice indeed.” 

The elf returned holding a steaming bowl, and the aroma was maddening. Anders’ mouth watered. “Slower this time.” the elf cautioned, before handing over a bowl of thick stew. Anders sat up, snatched the bowl, and slurped at it unapologetically. The elf eyed him quizzically while he ate. Anders could have sworn he felt his strength returning with each spoonful. He ate in silence and willed his memory to cooperate. He had fallen in the campsite, he remembered finding the bread, and then the elf appeared… the choking, the crashing, and then - 

“You’re a mage.”

The elf blinked in surprise.

“You’re a mage,” Anders repeated. “A Dalish mage. A free mage.”

The elf smiled. “I am.” he said simply. “I see that you are as well?” Anders followed his gaze to see both of their staves laid out on the floor and grinned sheepishly. “I guess the big, glowy stick was kind of a giveaway, eh?” he joked.

The elf chuckled. “It does stand out a bit. So… mage… who are you, exactly?”

“My name is Anders, most recently of the Kinloch Hold circle of magi.”

“Most recently?”

“Well… I… liberated myself about a week ago.”

“You mean you escaped.” the elf smiled. “Not a fan of the circle, then?”

Anders cocked an eyebrow and smiled. “You could say that.” He shrugged. 

“So you’ve just been wandering alone in the woods with no supplies, through a storm, for a week.”

“I’m alive, aren’t I?” Anders said defensively.

The elf cocked his head. “Thanks in no small part to me, my new friend.” he said.

“New friend?” Anders flashed his most charming grin. “I rather like the sound of that. And… ah, yes. Um, thank you, by the way, for… saving me. And what shall I call you, new friend?”

The elf smiled, a mischievous half-smile that mirrored Anders’ own. “You can call me Lavellan.” he said. “I’m the first of my clan, but I’m travelling alone for the time being. And you’re welcome.”

“Lavellan.” Anders repeated. He liked the way the name rolled easily off his tongue. “That’s a lovely name. So why exactly did you decide to nurse me back to health instead of killing me, or just leaving?”

“Leaving you would have been the same as killing you.” Lavellan said simply. “And you weren’t harming anyone. You took food. You were starving. I can’t fault you for that, and it certainly doesn’t merit a death sentence.” Lavellan shifted his weight from one foot to the other and paused thoughtfully. “What was your plan, when you escaped the circle?” he asked. “Where are you going? Do you have a destination in mind, or are you planning on hiding out in the woods forever?”

A shadow flickered in Anders’ eyes. “Kirkwall.” He replied. “I am going to Kirkwall.”

Lavellan was taken aback. “Kirkwall?” he exclaimed, “The city of chains? Why on earth would you want to go there?”

Anders was quiet. He looked away. After a moment, he spoke. “My friend... “ he said quietly. “My only friend. They took him there, to the Gallows. I want to get him out.”

“You can’t be serious. The Gallows is a fortress. You’d never get in, let alone find your friend and escape again.”

Anders clenched his jaw stubbornly. “I will rescue Karl or I will die trying.”

Lavellan raised an eyebrow. “Well… all right, then.” he said. “You should stay here, though. You’re not equipped for that kind of journey yet, and you’ll need to lie low for awhile if you want to stay... liberated. There have been templar patrols in the area.”

“Stay with you?” Anders asked in surprise. “Do you know what the templars will do to you if they catch you harboring a fugitive apostate? And you a mage yourself!”

Lavellan shrugged. “What would the templars want with an elf? Do you have a better idea?”

Anders jaw dropped, but he didn’t argue the point. “Thank you,” he managed. “You know, Lavellan, I think this is the beginning of a beautiful friendship.”

*************

“Lavellan! Down here!” Anders shouted, “There’s plenty down here!” Anders’ long blonde locks were pulled back in his characteristic ponytail, and a few loose strands played about his face. He reached up to brush one away and shouted again. “Lavellan!” He called. No response. Frustrated, he looked around. The clearing he’d found was absolutely full of the elfroot they needed, more than enough to replenish their stores of healing potions and salves. “Lavellan!” he shouted again. “Lavellan?”

“Are you looking for someone, Anders?”

Anders froze. From behind him, the unmistakeable voice spoke again.

“Who are you looking for? New boyfriend, perhaps? Tsk, tsk. I knew you were a slut, Anders, but even I never thought you’d forget about Thekla so quickly-”

White hot rage flashed through Anders’ mind, and in the blink of an eye his hand was on his staff and he was whirling to face Rylock, who was waiting for just that moment and promptly sucker-punched him in the face. Anders dropped the staff and staggered backwards. Two templar soldiers seized him roughly by the shoulders and dragged him back to Rylock. Blood flowed freely from Anders’ shattered nose. “You could have at least taken the gauntlet off, you mean old hag.” he said, coughing on his own blood. 

“What’s that, mage?” Rylock asked mockingly. “Are you resisting? It sounds like you’re resisting, Anders.”

“No, no, I just-” he paused to spit out blood. “Okay, okay, I surrender, you caught me. Again. I’ll go peacefully. If you would just let me heal my nose, please? I’m bleeding, here.”

“You are bleeding, aren’t you?” Rylock grinned wickedly. “Men, this maleficar has been caught in the act!” The templar closed in until her face was centimeters from Anders’. “And what do we do with maleficarum?”

“No,” Anders cried. “Wait, no!”

Out of nowhere, lightning arced across the clearing, striking everyone but Anders. Rylock and her goons crumpled to the ground, paralyzed. Never one to waste an opportunity, Anders snatched up his staff and tore off into the woods. Instinctively he ran first in the direction of Lavellan’s camp, but once logic began to creep back into his panicked mind he veered off in another direction. Chain lightning was a beautiful spell, but it was temporary. Rylock would be able to track him, and Anders had no intention of leading her anywhere near Lavellan. You’ve saved me twice now, friend, he thought. I suppose it’s time I returned the favor. 

*********

Relief flooded through Lavellan’s body as he watched Anders disappear into the trees. As soon as he was gone from view, Lavellan started running in the opposite direction. He couldn’t make it all the way across the clearing without engaging the templars, and it was probably safer to split up, anyway.

Lavellan leapt effortlessly over a fallen tree and crouched behind it, listening. No voices. No footsteps. Still, he waited. Better to be safe. 

Nothing.

Lavellan sighed in relief and stood up - and came face-to-face with a templar.

Terrified, Lavellan silently thanked the gods that he hadn’t picked up his staff when he’d stood. Moving as slyly as he could manage, he gently pushed the staff down into the leaf litter at the base of the fallen log. The movement was easily masked as the uncoordinated scramble of a frightened elf. The templar’s arm shot out, and he seized Lavellan by the collar and dragged him roughly over the log. The templar whistled, and moments later was joined by his partner and the woman, Rylock. The templar holding Lavellan forced the elf to his knees in front of Rylock. Rylock held her blade pointed menacingly into his face. “Knife-ear,” she snarled. “We are searching for a dangerous escaped apostate. Have you seen anyone?”

“No,” Lavellan stammered. “No, you’re the first people I’ve seen all day. You’re the first humans I’ve seen in days.”

“Why were you hiding back there, knife-ear?” the first templar demanded.

“I wasn’t hiding,” Lavellan insisted. I was looking for herbs.” The elfroot growing in abundance lent credence to the half-truth. Lavellan held his breath and waited to see if it was convincing enough to appease the templars.

Silence hung in the air for a moment, and all eyes were on Rylock to make the next move. She narrowed her eyes at Lavellan as if considering. “I believe you, knife-ear,” she said slowly, lowering her blade slightly. Lavellan finally exhaled in relief, but Rylock continued. “Still… elves aren’t really much better than mages, are they? You’re scavengers and thieves.” Lavellan silently begged any god listening to keep the templars from finding his staff in the leaves. “Vermin, all of you.” Rylock spat. She pressed the point of her sword into Lavellan’s chest. “I should kill you anyway.”

“Ser Rylock,” one of the other templars spoke up uneasily. “Our target is the maleficar. He’s still out there. We can not delay.”

Rylock glared at the young man for a moment, then turned back to Lavellan and scowled.

“Luckily for you, duty calls. Still… knife-ear…” she snarled the epithet through bared teeth. Her left hand shot out and seized Lavellan roughly by the hair. Lavellan yelped in surprise and pain, and instinctively reached up to try to free himself. He cried out again as she forced his head back, and the cry erupted into a full-throated scream as Rylock slid the tip of her blade into the young elf’s eye. Lavellan collapsed and clutched at his face, still screaming. His breath came in ragged, shuddering gasps. Rylock lazily wiped the blood off of her blade while she watched Lavellan writhe and bleed at her feet. When his screams subsided into convulsive sobs and then into quiet weeping, she finally turned her attention back to her subordinates. “Men, move on! The apostate can’t have gone far!”

Someone spit on him; someone kicked dirt at him, and then Lavellan was alone.

*********

“Lavellan!” Anders cried out, leaping to his feet. “Maker, what have they done to you? What happened? Let me see, let me see!”

Lavellan flinched away, and guilt pierced Anders’ heart. “Lavellan,” he said sadly. “I am so sorry. I know this is all my fault, but you have to let me heal your eye. You can’t leave it like that.”

Lavellan spoke, but kept his back to Anders. “No, this is not all your fault. This isn’t your fault at all. That woman… that horrible woman…”

A lump began to form in Anders’ throat. “Yes,” he said, reaching for Lavellan’s shoulder. “She is a horrible woman. But we can talk about that after I heal your-”

“NO!” Lavellan shrieked, and ran to the other side of the camp.

“Eye.” Anders finished. “Lavellan, I’m sorry!”

“I’m not angry with you, Anders.”

“You’re not?”

“No.”

Anders looked at his elven friend at a complete loss. He threw up his hands in frustration. “Then why in the Void won’t you let me heal your Maker forsaken eye?”

Lavellan was quiet for a moment, before looking rather pointedly at Anders with his one good eye.

“WHAT?” Anders demanded.

“Before I found you…” Lavellan began, but then trailed off.

“Yes?” Anders prodded.

“The night before… in the forest. Did you have… a small… incident… with a fire spell?”

Anders flushed with embarrassment. “Oh,” he said quietly. “You… ah, saw that, did you?”

“I think the Dalish clans in Orlais saw that.”

Anders threw up his hands again, this time in mock surrender. “Okay, okay, fine,” he said. “I’m no good at fire spells. Never have been. I have no talent for fire. But I’m a healer, Lavellan.” He cocked an eyebrow as an inevitable snarky comment took form in his mind, but he suppressed it for the moment. “I am a skilled healer, I promise you. I can save your eye. I can make it stop hurting. Trust me.”

Lavellan hesitated. In spite of the other mage’s irrepressibly sarcastic demeanor, there was genuine emotion in his voice. If he couldn’t save Lavellan’s eye, he at least believed with all his heart that he could. Otherwise alone in the woods, that chance was better than nothing. “Fine,” he said. “What do I do?”

“Come over here,” Anders directed. “Into the light.” 

Lavellan nervously did as he was told. Anders gently placed one hand under Lavellan’s chin and tilted his head slightly. With his other hand, he gingerly took hold of the hand Lavellan was using to cover his eye and moved it out of the way. Lavellan grimaced. 

“Trust me.” Anders said soothingly.

In spite of himself, Lavellan did. 

“It’s going to scar, but I can save the eye. I’ll do my best to make you gorgeous again, okay?” He grinned in encouragement. Lavellan smiled. 

Anders placed his hand gently over the wound, and a soft blue light began to emanate from his hand. Lavellan marvelled at the spell. It was unlike any he’d ever felt before, and he’d had his fair share of serious injuries. The light was both warm and cool, and flowed into his head in gentle ripples. He sighed in relief as the pain subsided.

After a few moments, Anders took his hand away. “There now,” he said, “look at me.”

Lavellan blinked carefully and the other mage swam into focus. Anders’ face returned to his familiar half-smile as he quipped, “I think you can make that scar work. It’s very dashing.”

Lavellan stood silently for a moment, and stepped closer to Anders. “Do you think it’s dashing?” he asked.

Anders smiled.

Lavellan kissed him.

Time froze.

Anders leaned into the kiss. It had all been light and fun until now and he desperately wanted to feel his lips on his. To be fair he just desperately wanted to feel anything at all. The flirting part came naturally to Anders. It was all a light touch here and quirked eyebrow there, and of course his stunning wit. The problem was, Lavellan wasn't like that. He seemed more serious. More committed. More like Karl. Anders pulled back as though he had been burned. Perhaps he had been. Lavellan looked up in shock. Anders turned away. Confused, Lavellan laid a questioning hand on his shoulder, only to feel the man shaking with sobs. “I’m so sorry,” he said brokenly. “I am so sorry. It’s not you.” 

“Anders, talk to me. What’s wrong?” Lavellan asked.

Anders pulled himself together as best he could, and said sadly, “My friend, Karl. We are… more than friends. I love him.” Anders’ voice cracked. “And now I don’t even know if he’s alive.”

Lavellan pulled Anders into an embrace. “He’s alive,” he assured the distraught mage. “He’s alive and you’re going to see him again. You’ll make it to Kirkwall.” 

“You don’t know that.”

“You don’t know that you won’t.”

Anders didn’t bother to argue. He took a deep breath. “Well,” he said, “We’d better get moving. This place is crawling with templars, and they’ve already found me once. It’s only a matter of time before they find our humble chateau.”

Lavellan nodded, and the two packed up the campsite in silence. When they were finished, Anders rummaged through his satchel for a moment before withdrawing a beautiful leather-bound book. “Here,” he said. “I want you to have this.”

Lavellan accepted the book and inspected the cover. “This is your book of healing spells!” he exclaimed. “Anders, I can’t take this.”

Anders smiled. “Please,” he insisted. “I want you to have it! I’ve had every spell in here memorized since I was seventeen.” Besides, he thought, the book had been a gift from First Enchanter Irving, and the once-treasured tome now evoked only grief and anger. He was well to be rid of it, and Lavellan could clearly make use of it. 

Lavellan smiled warmly. “Thank you, Anders.” he said. “I’ll cherish this.”

“Good.” Anders grinned, and his beautiful amber eyes sparkled with mischief. “Cherish this, too.”

With that he took Lavellan in his arms and kissed him passionately, tenderly, sensually. Lavellan returned the kiss with equal enthusiasm, and the two clutched at each other’s clothing while their tongues explored. When they parted, they were breathless.

Lavellan stared for a moment into those shining golden eyes. “I’ll cherish it always.” he replied.

Anders reached up and gently traced the lines of Lavellan’s vallaslin with his fingertips. “I will never forget you.” he promised. His fingers strayed to the new scar and a shadow crossed his face. “And if I ever catch the templar bitch who did this to you, I’ll show her why mages are feared.”

“Ugh, boring!” Sera interrupted. “And weird!” 

Lavellan leaned back in his chair at Skyhold and surveyed his audience. Solas was listening intently, as was Cassandra, but with very different expressions on their faces. Solas’ face was interested, but emotionless, and Cassandra… Maker, was she blushing? Lavellan smiled the same half-smile he’d picked up from his human friend all those years ago. Josephine had wandered off to deal with some political distraction, and Cullen had made a quick exit as soon as the story took a turn for the romantic. Dorian gestured for Sera to quiet down, but she simply left instead. “Continue, Inquisitor! Some of us are still listening.”

Lavellan smiled. “That’s it, unfortunately.” he said. “I never saw him again.”

“What?” Dorian exclaimed. “After all that buildup, that’s it? Ugh, Inquisitor, you’re terrible at this. Leave the stories to Varric from now on, hmm?” Dorian elbowed the uncharacteristically quiet Varric gently in the ribs. Varric shifted uneasily in his chair. “He touched your scar and then he said what, again?” he asked.

“He said he’d show Rylock why mages are feared.” Lavellan repeated.

Varric blinked. “I… have to go.” he said, and rose and left without another word.

Lavellan stood up and stretched. “Fair enough.” he said. “I’m going to turn in for the night. I’ll see you all the morning.” Lavellan turned and left, making his way out to the nearest balcony. He stared out into the night, and fixed his gaze on the moon, the golden moon that spoke to him of golden eyes. Lavellan brushed his fingertips across his lips.

“Always.” He whispered.


End file.
